


Forgotten

by CoffeeDrip



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell Fic, M/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2056791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeDrip/pseuds/CoffeeDrip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester's rescue from Hell, and how he and Castiel formed their profound bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Best Work Yet

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry that there are some hints of rape here... it's Hell, it's torture... 
> 
> I think this will be a three part fic (two parts already written) but not quite sure. Hope you enjoy. This isn't my usual fare!

Dean put down the knife, grinning to himself as the woman on the table behind him screamed, begging for mercy, salvation, or absolute death.

"So useless," he said aloud, flashing white teeth over his shoulder. "Who is here to hear your cries? Go ahead, call for God, but he would have saved you if you had deserved it."

"Please... Please don't cut me again..." The woman's face was contorted in agony; Dean figured she had been beautiful when she was topside. Almond shaped eyes and sun kissed skin, soft brown curls framing her face and falling down over her ample breasts. Yes, before she ended up on Dean Winchester’s to-do list in Hell, she was likely quite lovely.

Now? Now Dean had had his fun with her, and she was far from pleasing to the eye, although Dean himself felt a twisted thrill run through his body from looking at her. "Oh, there's plenty more I want to do to you without a scalpel," he murmured into her ear, his breath ghosting along the ravaged skin of her neck and causing her to shudder.

"Oh God, please no," she whimpered, tears falling down her ruined cheeks. “Please… stop…” Her cries were mostly whispers as Dean crawled onto the surface of the table, eyes scanning the body below him as he pressed himself against her.

Dean opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the sound of an explosion nearby, followed by a blinding flash of light. He climbed down and stepped away from the trembling victim, striding to the barred cell window and putting a hand against his forehead above his coal black eyes, attempting to get a better look at the source of the commotion. There had been rumors for several years of fighting in the other circles, but never had it gotten this close to the torture chambers. Dean couldn’t help his curiosity about the battle. All of Hell was talking about it.

"Dean!" Alastair's voice snapped him back to attention. He turned to face his mentor, the demon who had tortured Dean himself for decades before he broke. "Pay no mind to the outside, you have a job to finish. This conflict has raged for years without us and will continue to do so."

Dean returned his gaze to the woman shivering spread-eagle and naked on the splintered wooden surface of his table. She mumbled incoherently, eyes wide with fear as Dean returned to her side.

“Now, where were we?” He asked, his lips pulled up in a smirk. Damn he was good at his job. This was his best work yet. He ran his hand reverently up her side, relishing the slide of blood under his fingers as he did so. He lifted his hand to his mouth, sucking the blood from his digits as his victim watched in fear.

Another, closer explosion shook the building, stopping him short once again. Even the woman strapped to his table reacted this time, straining to see out the window with just her eyes able to move.

“Continue with your assignment,” Alastair ordered, standing up and making his way from the room, presumably in pursuit of information about the battle raging outside.

“Let’s have some more fun, shall we?” Dean asked his subject, pulling a wheeled cart to the side of the wooden table and picking up a pair of pliers. “How much do you like your fingernails?” He turned back to her and took her left hand in his own, admiring the long fingers and slender hand for a moment, before gripping the long nail of her index finger in the pliers’ teeth.

“One… two… three!” With a yank, he removed the nail forcibly from the finger, awakening new cries from the woman’s raw throat. These screams were the loudest yet from this particular subject. He hummed in approval of his own work and reached for another finger when something struck the building, shaking the room and causing him to drop his pliers.

“The fuck?” He hissed as his tools of torture rattled on the tray and cries erupted from the rooms surrounding his own.

“Angels!” He heard the cry echo down the hall. “Angels!”

“There is a God…” he heard the woman moan on the table.

“Shut up, whore. God wants nothing to do with you, isn’t that clear?” Dean snapped at her, before moving again to the window in search of a better view. Outside, a battle was raging, the likes of which he had never seen before. The immediate area was alight with the glow of the luminous figures surrounding the building, laying waste to the demonic horde surrounding them.

And then, something happened. One of those figures turned, and locked eyes with Dean’s own, and for the first time in decades, he felt the weight of his sins upon him. The burden of every soul he had tortured until it broke, the pain of his own time on the rack, the agony of being separated from his brother and Bobby and all those he loved most.

“Dean Winchester is found,” the figure said, before disappearing from sight.

For a moment, Dean stood, stunned with what he felt. And then, the woman on the table gasped, and he turned, coming face-to-face with the most beautiful man he had ever seen. The figure he had locked eyes with only moments before.

“We must go, now.” The man said to Dean, who was utterly confused.

“Go? I’m kind of in the middle of something.” He gestured toward the woman and smirked as she writhed in pain.

“That is not of import. My orders are to bring your soul back to the Earth. You do not belong in Hell.” The man’s voice was deep and utterly lacking in emotion, as if he could not understand why Dean was not simply taking his hand and going with him.

“This is where I belong,” Dean responded. “This is my fate.”

“No, Dean Winchester, it is not. God does not wish it so. Your soul is not destined for perdition. Please, come with me.” The man offered Dean his hand, which was promptly slapped away.

“You must have me confused with someone else. Take her - she deserves salvation more than me. I’m damned. Take any of them, but leave me here where I belong.” Dean snarled. The man stepped forward then, forcibly taking Dean’s wrist.

“I cannot take any other with me but you, Dean. And I will not leave here without you.” As Dean attempted to pull away, the man dragged him forward, holding him against his chest even as he fought and cried out at the searing pain in his arm where the angel had grabbed him. It was as if the man was exhibiting no effort whatsoever.

“Take them! I chose to be here - take them!” Dean raged. The man allowed him to land a hit a few times, before sweeping him up into his arms. Dean was aghast at the indignity of the situation, and opened his mouth to protest once again, when he was cut short.

“Hush,” the man soothed as he stretched his singed and battered wings to take flight. “Do not fight me, Dean. My name is Castiel. It took me decades to reach you, and my garrison lost many angels. We must make better time going than we did coming, with fewer able to engage in battle.”

Dean felt a surge of calming energy sweep through him, and for the first time in decades, he felt peaceful as he slipped into a dreamless sleep in the arms of this strange winged man.

Castiel hesitated a moment, looking down at the brilliant soul in his arms. Although filled with darkness, the angel could tell that Dean was indeed the man foretold by his father. He had never seen a soul shine so brilliantly, even with the stain of 40 years in hell upon it. With a glance at the woman to undo her binds and heal her wounds, Castiel took flight, taking the Righteous Man with him.


	2. To Make an Angel Smile in the Pits of Hell

Dean stirred in Castiel’s arms about a day into his flight from Hell. The angel signaled to his garrison that his charge was awakening, urging them to be vigilant in their protection of himself and Dean.

“Wha’ happened?” Dean questioned as he awoke. His eyes searched out Castiel’s own, and his brows drew together. His next line was said in a venomous tone. “I thought I told you to leave me behind?”

“Your orders do not trump God’s own,” Castiel replied simply.

“God, huh? Never thought he cared.” Dean quipped. Castiel smiled fondly, wrapping the troubled soul in a blanket of his grace.

“God cares about all of his creatures, from the very smallest to the very greatest,” the angel responded. Dean made a vulgar, nasal noise of disbelief. “You, Dean Winchester, are one of his greatest.”

“Don’t say things like that,” was Dean’s snapped response. “You don’t know me, you don’t know the things I’ve done.”

"I know everything you've done, you have nothing to hide from me, Dean," Castiel told him.

"If you know all that I've done you'll know that I'm not worth saving," came Dean's angry reply.

Castiel simply hummed in response and continued their upward flight. He paid no mind to Dean muttering to himself about being carried like a child in the arms of some creature, nor to the whispers of his brothers and sisters as they observed the soul wrapped up protectively in one of his sets of wings. His mission was to safely return Dean to the Earth and he intended to do just that.

He knew very well the things Dean had done - the drinking and women, the faithless life he lived, the sale of his soul and the torture he had both endured and inflicted. But despite all of that, Castiel remained amazed at the beauty of the being in his arms. The soul before him was breathtaking in its flawed brilliance.

"What are you smiling about, feathers?" Dean asked.

"I... Do not smile..." Castiel replied. "I do not express emotion in the manner you humans do."

"Whatever you say, halo boy. Pretty sure you were just grinning."

Castiel tilted his head down to look at the soul in his arms. Dean was smiling now, and laughing lightly, appearing surprised as he did so, as though it was something he had not done in a long while.

"Your soul gets brighter the closer we get to the surface," the angel noted. Dean didn't know how to respond, so he chose to stay quiet, and the angel continued to speak. “Forty years in Hell would have ruined most humans. But you, you are just barely broken. Nowhere near the wasteland of a soul I expected to find after taking so long to reach you.”

“So what’s that mean, barely broken?” Dean asked.

“When I reach the surface, I will need to rebuild your physical body. I expected to have to rebuild a large part of your soul as well, but will need to do only a bit of stitching instead,” Castiel remarked.

“That whole statement was just creepy,” Dean replied. He didn’t want to imagine his decomposed body or his Hell-tainted soul. “My body must be just bones and dust, after this long. Are Sam and Bobby even alive? It’s been… decades...”

“Forty years in Hell, but only four months on Earth,” the angel informed him. “Time passes differently in each dimension. Both Sam and Bobby are alive. Your body is decomposed but salvageable”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Dean remarked.

“If we had not encountered resistance we would rescued you much sooner. We began our journey as soon as the hellhounds had finished tearing you apart. However, the demons did not take kindly to our intrusion,” the angel did grin then, and Dean called him out on it.

“Thought you didn’t smile?” The hunter said with a grin of his own. Castiel looked down at him and noticed that every bit of good humor pushed back some of the darkness staining Dean’s soul.

“You are a strange creature indeed, Dean Winchester, to make an angel smile in the belly of hell,” Castiel said.

“Yeah, well, I’ve always lived to bring joy to the people,” Dean responded. A confused look now passed over the angel”s features.

“Dean, you spent your life hunting and killing supernatural creatures and being overly protective of your brother…”

“It’s called sarcasm, Cas. Didn’t really mean it.” Dean was laughing again now, and Castiel smiled again.

 

Over the course of the next several days, the angels continued their flight to the portal from Hell, and Dean - lacking anything better to do - continued to talk with the angel who cradled him in his middle set of wings, finding his company easy and soothing.

The angels had become restless, finding almost no demons barring their path from the pit. An angel named Uriel regularly came to discuss the matter with Castiel, ignoring the soul huddled amongst the grace of his black wings.

“We suspect that there will be a force of demons guarding the portal,” Uriel told Castiel one day. “We will attack them in the hope of drawing them away from the exit, so that you may escape with the Righteous Man.”

“Righteous Man?” Dean interjected, but Castiel hushed him. Dean wasn’t pleased at being cut off, but fell quiet.

“It is likely your suspicions are correct. We have seen too few demons in the past two days. We should approach the portal within hours. Be on the lookout, and be ready,” Castiel replied to the other angel, who flew off without another word.

“What did he mean, Righteous Man?” Dean asked again. This time, the angel was silent for a moment before responding.

“Dean, you are needed to help stop the Apocalypse,” he said bluntly. “The demons are trying to break Lucifer free from his cage. The first seal has been broken.”

“Apocalypse, like, Revelations?” Dean sounded incredulous, and Castiel couldn’t blame him. He knew that the hunter had no religious faith to speak of, and was surprised that he had accepted the idea that he was surrounded by angels with as little argument as he did.

“Yes, the events laid out in Revelations, while not entirely correct, give you some idea of what will occur if the seals are allowed to be broken and Lucifer allowed to rise. The first has already been broken, which means there are only 65 more standing between him and mankind.”

Dean was quiet then, perhaps thinking. Castiel did not pry. He never did, when the soul fell silent. He had not often interacted with humans and was not certain his inquiries would be appreciated.

“What does that have to do with me?” The man asked after a few minutes.

“You need to help us stop it.” Castiel said it as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “You are special, Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah, yeah, you keep saying that,” the hunter brushed him off easily. “But I’m really not. How can I help stop something if angels themselves can’t do it?”

“God works in mysterious ways,” Castiel responded, and Dean scoffed.

“Shut up, Cas.” Dean had taken to calling him by this abbreviated form of his name a couple of days after his rescue. Castiel had been told by others in his garrison that it was a sign of trust and affection between humans.

“For now, we must focus on freeing you from this place, and returning your body to the living. What happens afterward can be worried about at that time,” the angel said.

“Sure - no big deal. Hey Dean, we’re going to pull you out of Hell and ask you to stop the Apocalypse. No biggie, don’t worry about it.”

Castiel had come to recognize the sarcasm in Dean’s voice, and let it slide. 


End file.
